


Until you see me

by mornmeril



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angst, Enjolras pines and Grantaire doesn't, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Piningjolras, Romance, Unhealthy Relationships, and because it's Enjolras and R, and did I mention pining?, because of co-dependency, obsessive and addictive personalities make an unhealthy combination, of course, some mention of mental health issues but nothing drastic i should say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 14:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornmeril/pseuds/mornmeril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is hopelessly in love with Grantaire, who doesn't give him the time of day. Until he does.</p>
<p>- Or the one where it's Enjolras doing all the pining and Grantaire is the one that needs some time to get it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until you see me

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know I should be updating my WIPs and instead I wrote this, BUT fear not. Both updates for _Lay me on a broken bed_ and _You and I go hard_ are all but ready and lined up so both should get second parts within the next day or two, promise!
> 
> I just needed to get this out of my system. This is 100% self-indulgent, because I've been dying to write a role-reversal for _ages_ and then this suddenly jumped me and just poured out of me in one sitting. But now it's out and I can focus on other things again XD.
> 
> I even considered not posting it at all, but then I thought why not? And I've seen some comments floating about that asked for Enjolras being the one in unrequited love with Grantaire for once and maybe some of you might like it, after all, even if it's probably a little weird.
> 
> It was strange doing this, I won't lie, but I had a ridiculous amount of fun with it and there's a certain satisfaction in having Grantaire not suffer for once - or at least as much as Grantaire is able not to suffer, in any case XD. Just keep in mind that this is a role-reversal, so some things might seem to stretch the characters a little, but I did my best to stick true to them.
> 
> Anyway, I won't deter you any longer and wish you happy reading :)! <3

* * *

This is getting ridiculous.

Enjolras tears his eyes away for the umpteenth time that day and feels himself seconds away from screaming. Combeferre’s calm gaze is resting on him patiently and Enjolras knows that if he were a lesser man, he would’ve abandoned their conversation long ago, seeing as Enjolras is absolutely unable to focus.

“Have you considered talking to him?” Combeferre asks mildly, giving up all pretence that they would get any work done tonight.

Enjolras glares at him and it takes the entirety of his willpower not to let his eyes wander back to their favourite subject yet again.

“And tell him what, exactly?” Enjolras hisses, careful to keep his voice low so not to attract the attention of their friends, scattered about the back room of the Musain. “‘Grantaire, we don’t really know each other and you’re only here because your best friend is pining after Marius, but I just wanted to let you know that I’ve been obsessively in love with you ever since you first walked in here and could you please stop being so amazing, because it distracts me from my work’?”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow and Enjolras feels a blush climbing his neck towards his cheeks. If it had been anyone but Combeferre, he’s sure he would’ve been mortified. He still is, a little bit, but then again Enjolras has always had trouble keeping his mind to mouth filter when he’s passionate about something. And if there’s anything he’s passionate about, it’s the man across the room.

Enjolras chances another look at Grantaire, finding him in much the same position as before. He’d walked in about an hour ago, barely catching the tail-end of Enjolras’ rant of the day and looking thoroughly bored at the prospect of being stuck here once again as he’d trailed Eponine to their usual table at the back. Since then, he’s nursed the same bottle of coke that he’d ordered earlier and is balancing a sketchpad in his lap, a pencil moving over the paper in quick, skilled movements as he holds up his end of the conversation with Bahorel and Feuilly. 

Ever since Grantaire had first joined them here, he’d slotted easily into place amongst Enjolras’ friends. Everyone likes him, likes his company, and Enjolras is the only person, other than Combeferre, who doesn’t get to spend any time with Grantaire outside their meetings. He doesn’t even have Grantaire’s phone number, a fact which sits heavily in his stomach every time he’s reminded of it. Courfeyrac had offered to give it to him, teasing Enjolras mercilessly with the information, but Enjolras had refused. He doesn’t just want to pick up Grantaire’s number on the way as a simple act of charity by his friends, he wants _Grantaire_ to be the one to give it to him because he wants Enjolras to have it - not like that’s ever likely to happen.

Enjolras tries very hard not to be jealous and fails spectacularly every time, especially since once again the only acknowledgement he’s gotten from Grantaire today has been something that barely passes as a nod. He hasn’t looked at Enjolras once since he came in and, seeing as he was late arriving, didn’t hear enough of Enjolras’ speech to present any form of argument. Enjolras feels even more miserable for it and wishes he had the courage to walk over to Grantaire and simply force him to pay attention to him.

On the days when Grantaire arrives early enough to catch some of what Enjolras is discussing at the meetings, he rolls his eyes or snorts and delivers a row of stunning arguments that leave Enjolras both enraged and helplessly swooning on the spot, because Grantaire is just so _incredibly intelligent_. Enjolras doesn’t care if all he ever gets from Grantaire is cynicism and mockery, as long as he speaks to Enjolras _at all_ , which happens far too rarely as it is.

Before Grantaire, Enjolras had never even so much as looked at anyone before. There hadn’t been anyone to look _at_. Courfeyrac had always said that obviously appearance wouldn’t mean anything to Enjolras and that he’d just end up falling for the mind of someone so brilliant that he wouldn’t know what hit him. Enjolras had used to roll his eyes and ignore him, but those times were long gone. Turns out, Courfeyrac’s people skills are just as scarily spot-on as Enjolras has always known them to be.

And it’s not that Enjolras doesn’t think Grantaire’s eyes are the most amazing thing he’s ever seen and feels as though he’s constantly downing in them, or that his sure artist-hands aren’t what he thinks about _all the time_ , thinks how they would feel on his skin and curling into his hair and- Enjolras clamps down on his thoughts and takes a deep breath.

The point is, that it’s Grantaire’s mind that he fell in love with practically the moment the other man had opened his mouth to contradict him on that very first day. And it’s that completely consuming love bordering on obsession that’s made Enjolras zero in on Grantaire in such a way that it’s quite literally insane.

To his friends’ credit, none of them had seemed even remotely surprised at Enjolras’ unhealthy attachment, seeing as he’s an obsessive personality by nature and unable to do anything by halves - and yes, it’s friends plural, because Enjolras would find it truly surprising if there’s a single soul left in Paris that doesn’t know about his obsession with Grantaire, not with him openly pining after him for over a year now. Everyone except Grantaire, that is. Because Grantaire seems so absolutely unimpressed by Enjolras that if they never saw each other again, he’d probably just shrug and move on. And it’s _killing_ Enjolras.

It hurts to see Grantaire, but not seeing him is even worse and Enjolras is eternally grateful for his causes, because they’re the only thing distracting him enough to not have him end up in a miserable ball on his bed every day, unwilling to get back up. He works and works and works some more, burying himself in uni and activist duties alike and trying to stay sane while wondering for the fist time in his life if there’s actually something wrong with him. If his parents had a point when they used to tell him that his behaviour isn’t normal and sent him to no less than five different therapists who all diagnosed him as slightly unstable with difficulties in controlling his temper and an obsessive streak a mile wide. They’d suggested anger management and stressed that it was important to keep Enjolras occupied, seeing as his high IQ would only make him more volatile in the long run.

Enjolras had only scoffed, while secretly sneaking out at night and straight into Combeferre’s bed, pressing in close and letting himself be told that there was absolutely nothing wrong with him, that he was fine and good and he shouldn’t listen to what anyone said.

Enjolras isn’t sure if it’s still true. Not sure at all.

The familiar touch of Combeferre’s hand on his own tears Enjolras from his thoughts and he grips back without thought, holding on tightly for the fear of losing himself otherwise.

“Do you want to go home?” Combeferre asks quietly.

Enjolras looks back at Grantaire and shakes his head.

“No,” he says, not taking his eyes off Grantaire as he watches him laugh at something Bahorel had said, a quick flash of bright blue as he looks up briefly, before fixing his gaze back on his sketchpad, his lips twisting into a dry smile as he retorts. “No, let’s stay for a bit longer.”

Combeferre doesn’t reply and Enjolras leans a bit further back, casting himself in shadow as he hides away in his booth and keeps on looking.

*

“It’s a bad idea,” Grantaire says, sounding bored.

Enjolras turns to him with the most vicious glare he can manage while his heart leaps inside his chest, but Grantaire doesn’t even bother looking up from his drawing to see it. It makes Enjolras’ chest tighten painfully and he has to swallow before he trusts himself to answer without giving himself away.

“Would you care to elaborate on that?” Enjolras asks, thankful that his voice comes out sharp and irritated.

Grantaire finally looks up with a sigh, looking ridiculously hot sprawled out in his chair like that, as if nothing at all could phase him - least of all Enjolras and what Grantaire has made clear he considers his hopelessly naive views.

“They’re provoking you, don’t you see?” Grantaire says, then goes on, but this time addressing the room at large instead of Enjolras directly. It makes Enjolras’ chest clench further, knowing that Grantaire doesn’t seem to care either way whether he has Enjolras’ attention or not. “If you stage a counter-protest, you’ll be playing directly into their hands; it’s what they’re counting on and they’ll be ready. It won’t be about your cause anymore, it’ll just be a huge riot and it’ll be messy. It’ll do jack shit about making a statement, you’ll just be stamped off as silly boys spoiling for a fight.”

_Isn’t that what you think of us anyway?_ Enjolras wants to ask, but then bites the words back at the last moment.

“So you suggest just sitting here and ignoring it? Is that it?”

Grantaire taps his sketchpad with his pencil. “If you want to be taken seriously for once, then yes. Just going out on the street shouting because someone else started it isn’t going to appear very mature to people on the outside.”

Enjolras knows that his cheeks are burning, a flush of both anger and embarrassment. “If it was for you, sitting here doing nothing would be the status quo.” Then, unable to listen to anymore of Grantaire’s jibes, he turns to address his friends once more. “We’re doing it, just as planned.”

Grantaire shrugs and returns to his drawing. “Your funeral.”

*

Grantaire is right, of course he is. But Enjolras has never been good at doing nothing and simply letting an opposing protest carry on unhindered is unthinkable. And so they turn up with their own banners, their own signs and scream just a little louder than the others. And of course it all explodes into a riot within the first half an hour, complete with swarms of riot police descending on them like vultures and snatching whoever they can get their hands on. Unsurprisingly, Enjolras is one of them.

He spends an entire night in a holding cell on his own, the police officer in charge gleefully informing him that his bail wouldn't be approved until morning.

When Enjolras finally emerges from the station in the grey light of dawn he's bone-deep tired and aching all over. There's blood crusted in his hair from where he hit his head and the entire left side of his face is aching from having been hit. He's sure there must be a spectacular bruise, not only because Enjolras can't even brush his fingers over his cheek without wincing in pain, but also because he bruises ridiculously easy.

He expects Combeferre or Courfeyrac - or really, anyone of his friends. It’s not any of them.

Grantaire is leaning against the bannister outside the station, watching as Enjolras slowly makes his way over. His eyes flicker over Enjolras’ bruised face, but he doesn’t comment, just waits patiently with his hands submerged in his pockets and his hair looking just a little wilder than usual. Enjolras fiddles briefly with his own hair, cursing the fact that he hadn’t bothered to re-tie his pony-tail since last night and then feeling even more ridiculous for it. He can already feel heat rising from his neck and does his best to fight it down.

He comes to a halt in front of Grantaire, heart beating wildly and torn between elation and mortification, which does absolutely nothing for his frayed nerves.

“What are you doing here?” Enjolras asks and it comes out soft and almost reverent. He hopes Grantaire will blame it on his concussion.

“Courfeyrac called me,” Grantaire says. “Everyone else is still busy licking their wounds and he asked me if I minded picking you up. I don’t have a car, though, so we can either take a cab or get the metro.”

Enjolras has trouble unsticking his eyes. “The metro’s fine.”

Grantaire nods and turns on his heel without fuss, leading the way to the station, not checking if Enjolras is following. There’s no need, of course, because even if the path led straight to hell, Enjolras would still be following if it was Grantaire doing the leading. Wrapping his arms around himself, Enjolras shivers as he falls into step with Grantaire, his longer legs keeping up easily. The autumn air is biting, especially this early in the morning and Enjolras tightens his grip on his arms, glancing furtively at Grantaire, who doesn’t look back, eyes fixed on the phone in his hands as he rapidly taps out a text.

Enjolras purses his lips, but doesn’t say anything. He’s too exhausted to even try and keep up the pretence after that and ends up simply giving into the urge to look at Grantaire every few steps. Grantaire either doesn’t care or doesn’t notice and only catches his gaze twice before they reach the station and hop onto the train that would take them in the direction Enjolras and Combeferre’s flat.

The metro is almost entirely empty at this time, only a few people scattered throughout the train, either on their way to or from work and all of them tired and silent. Grantaire falls into the first available seat and Enjolras, for once unwilling to second-guess himself, takes the free space at his side. Grantaire looks at him then, but doesn’t say anything, not even when their thighs end up pressed together and Enjolras has to fix his eyes to the opposite wall, spine rigid as he tries to keep his breathing even. As tired as he is, he doesn’t want to leave this spot, wants to stay right here where he can feel Grantaire’s warmth and there are bolts of desire sparking to life beneath his skin from where they are touching, even through two layers of clothing.

When they disembark, the air is all the colder for the sudden loss of Grantaire’s warmth and Enjolras shudders as a breeze rushes through the trees, making leaves fall down on them in a yellow-brown rain.

“You must be freezing,” Grantaire says, eyeing Enjolras’ thin t-shirt doubtfully. 

There’s no point in denying it, so Enjolras doesn’t. He’s wearing long sleeves, but they do little in keeping the wind from penetrating his skin. His jacket is most likely still in Combeferre’s car, where he discarded it earlier during the protest when the sun was shining and there were people everywhere, pressed together as they marched and shouted.

Grantaire stops walking abruptly and swiftly shrugs off his thin jacket and then, with the jacket now held between his thighs, tugs off his green hoodie, the hem of the shirt underneath riding up briefly to show a tantalising sliver of skin. Enjolras stares, unable not to, and has to bite his lip at the sight of the dark dusting of hair leading from Grantaire’s navel downwards until it disappears, obscured by the waistband of his tattered jeans.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow, his lips quirking as he catches Enjolras looking at him with a no doubt horribly transparent expression and there’s nothing Enjolras can do to hide the sudden flush making its way up from his neck all the way to his cheeks. If he could make the ground swallow him, he would.

But Grantaire doesn’t call him out on it and when he closes the distance between them, Enjolras’ breath catches audibly. Cheeks still burning, Enjolras feels the familiar pull of desire forming a hot knot within his stomach.

The hoodie is dropped over his head without ceremony, enfolding him as Grantaire tugs it into place.

“Here,” is all he says, looking satisfied as he takes a step back and puts his jacket back on. “That’s better, yeah? Can’t have the fearless leader freeze to death, what will your trusted followers say?”

Enjolras’ thoughts kick back into motion at the familiar mockery and he all but punches his arms through the sleeves. “They’re not my followers and I’m not their leader. We’re all equals, Grantaire, that’s the point.”

Grantaire shrugs and resumes walking. “If that’s what you like to think.”

Enjolras catches up to him easily. “It’s not about what I think. It’s the truth.”

Grantaire side-glances at him and god, will Enjolras ever get used to how ridiculously blue his eyes are.

“There’s no such thing as equality, Enjolras,” Grantaire says quietly. “But I know how you like to delude yourself, so I suppose arguing over this again is kind of a mute point.”

Enjolras starts a little, the words sounding far too much like defeat for his comfort and instantly make his heart clench painfully in his chest.

“I like arguing with you,” is what tumbles from his mouth, impulsive and devastatingly sincere.

Grantaire looks at him properly then and there’s something soft in his eyes that Enjolras hasn’t seen before.

“I know you do.”

Enjolras looks away, feeling raw and open in a way that leaves him panicked and helpless, fearing that he might break any second.

“I like it, too,” Grantaire adds then, after a moment of torturous silence. “I might not agree with you, but I do admire what you do. You’re quite amazing, actually.”

Enjolras’ heart almost stops and he knows his eyes must be wide when he finally manages to look at Grantaire again.

“You think I’m amazing?”

Grantaire frowns and they walk the last few steps before stopping at the door leading up to Enjolras’ flat.

“Of course I do.” For once, there’s no trace of mockery in Grantaire’s voice and his look is honest in a way Enjolras has never seen before. “Enjolras, you’re brilliant. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that. Just because I think you’re naive - which you are - doesn’t mean that I can’t see the amount of work you put into this. You inspire people, that’s a good thing. I don’t argue with you because I want to be right, hell, I’d love to be wrong! It’d be amazing to live in a world like you describe, or even to see the fucked-up world we live in the way you do, but I’m too much of a realist for that. But don’t let that deter you. The world needs people like you.”

Enjolras thinks he might actually be trembling. He tires his best to conceal it as being cold, even though Grantaire’s hoodie is still warm from Grantaire’s own body and it smells of him and if Enjolras could get away with it, he’d bury his nose in it and breathe in nothing but Grantaire ever again.

“It needs people like you, too,” Enjolras says softly and the meaning couldn’t have been clearer if he’d actually spelled it out. _I need you_.

Grantaire looks rather thrown for a minute, but when he smiles at Enjolras it’s slow and sweet, completely missing the usual sharpness.

“Well, don’t worry about that. I’m not going anywhere. That’s what friends are for, right?”

Enjolras stares at him while his heart does his best to beat its way out of his chest.

“We’re friends?”

Grantaire is back to frowning now and Enjolras misses the smile from before, would do anything to have it back.

“Of course we are.”

Enjolras looks down for a moment, studying the frayed sleeves of Grantaire’s hoodie and fingering one of the loose threads.

“I just thought,” he huffs out a frustrated breath and forcefully composes himself, abandoning the sleeves and looking back up, complete with a raise of his chin in an act of defiance. “You don’t like me, so it didn’t take a lot to arrive at that conclusion.”

Grantaire’s brows draw together slightly.

“What are you talking about?” he asks and he sounds genuinely confused. “Of course I like you! You drive me up the wall sometimes, sure, but I do the same to you. And I just told you, I admire what you do.” 

Enjolras must look as flummoxed as he feels, because Grantaire’s whole expression softens and the hand that curls around his elbow is as gentle as his voice when he goes on.

“Enjolras, I’ve always considered you a friend. Do you think I’d leave my warm bed at arse o’clock in the morning for just anyone?”

It takes all of Enjolras’ willpower not to cover Grantaire’s hand with his own, to not take it and twine their fingers together and never let go. And something in Grantaire shifts then, right in this moment with Enjolras trembling beneath his touch and his hopeless worship clearly writ across his face. There’s something serious in his gaze now, grave almost, and his fingers tighten ever so slightly, sending a bolt of desire up Enjolras’ arm.

There’s intent there, Enjolras can tell, and he knows, he _knows_ that Grantaire is going to say something momentous, something that will change everything. He’s going to ask Enjolras and Enjolras will tell him and then, _then_ Grantaire will finally, finally say aloud what Enjolras has known all along. He will tell Enjolras that he doesn’t want him, will never want him and then Enjolras will be unable to erase the words from his memory ever again. He’ll hear them every day for the rest of his life, echoing inside his mind and whispered at him while he’s sleeping and it’s going to utterly ruin him. 

No, he can’t let Grantaire ask, they can’t talk about this, Enjolras wouldn’t survive it. And so he stops it before it’s too late, cutting off Grantaire’s words before they can be spoken out loud and laid out before them, ready to shatter Enjolras’ pitiful heart.

“I should go inside. Combeferre must be worried.” Enjolras is proud how steady his voice is, how it takes only one deep breath before he can slip out of Grantaire’s grasp.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says his name like an argument, his tone heavy with unspoken words.

“Thank you for getting me and walking me home,” Enjolras says firmly, brooking no further argument, the handle of the door already in his hand.

He leaves Grantaire standing there, staring in his wake, and he feels like a coward.

It’s only when he’s already up the stairs and leaning panting against the door of his flat that he realises he’s still wearing Grantaire’s hoodie.

That night, he sleeps in it, huddling deeply into the fabric and wrapping his own arms around himself, pretending they’re Grantaire’s.

*

They don’t speak about it. Grantaire doesn’t ask for the hoodie and Enjolras doesn’t return it. But now, whenever Enjolras looks at him - which is always - Grantaire looks right back.

He still argues with Enjolras, but it’s both more vicious and more careful. He looks at Enjolras as though he’s waiting for something, or maybe conducting a particularly taxing experiment. His eyes are calculating and intent, lingering on Enjolras as though the power of his gaze will be enough to strip Enjolras of the last few barriers that he so desperately clings to. He watches and he waits and it drives Enjolras insane, shaken to the core by the sudden change in their dynamic and fraying his nerves.

Their friends have picked up on it as well, of course they have, but Enjolras dodges their careful prodding and so, he realises, does Grantaire.

For all he’d craved for Grantaire to pay attention to him, this hadn’t been what Enjolras had wanted. This waiting before the inevitable storm, a storm that would leave Enjolras tattered like the sails of a ship, beaten and broken by the waves.

But just like a storm, there is no escaping Grantaire and when he finally breaks their silence, Enjolras is almost relieved that the wait is over - if only the notion that he was to be ripped open wasn’t so terrifying.

*

“Those flyers that you wanted,” Grantaire says, appearing so suddenly at Enjolras’ side that the papers he’s been gathering nearly slip from his fingers in surprise. “I finished them.”

“Good,” Enjolras says, reflexively. He clears his throat, slightly flustered, and does his best to reign himself in once more. “That’s good. Can I have a look at them?”

Grantaire looks at him and it’s with the same calculating stare he’s been giving Enjolras for weeks. It makes Enjolras feel queasy, even as he tries to hide it. 

With his hip coming to rest on the edge of the table, Grantaire folds his arms in front of his chest and looks like the dictionary entry to _casual_.

“Of course,” Grantaire says lightly. “But the thing is,” there, he pauses, and when his tongue comes out to wet his lips, Enjolras is helplessly transfixed. “I forgot them at home.”

“Oh,” Enjolras breathes, hardly listening.

“But if you come with me, I can give them to you.”

Enjolras blinks. “What?”

Grantaire’s lips quirk. “I said, come with me. I’ll just forget them again otherwise.”

“You want me to walk you home?” Enjolras hopes that didn’t come out as strangled as it felt.

“It’s only fair, don’t you think?” Grantaire’s tone is teasing, but the glint in his eye isn’t. “I walked you home last time, now it’s your turn.”

And so Enjolras does, because of course he’s helpless to deny Grantaire anything.

It’s already dark out and the wind is just as biting, if not more so, than the day Grantaire picked Enjolras up from prison. Even so, the streets of Paris are filled with people, bundled up in coats and wrapped in scarves, happily battling the weather and undeterred at the fast approach of winter.

Grantaire’s flat is in walking distance of the Musain, not in the worst area of the city, but close enough that leaving your car parked in this kind of neighbourhood overnight will result in finding it either dismantled or missing the next morning. The door to the building looks as though someone attacked it with a crow bar and, Enjolras suspects, that’s probably exactly what happened. The hallway inside is dimly lit and the walls are an unidentifiable colour, the floor grimy despite the near darkness.

Enjolras has only ever been here once before in the company of Courfeyrac, when he’d dragged Enjolras along to pick up something or other that he’d left at Grantaire’s. Then, Enjolras had not gotten the chance to actually step inside Grantaire’s flat, but this time Grantaire unlocks the door and leads him inside. He toes off his shoes at the door and Enjolras hesitates, unsure whether Grantaire means for him to stay long enough to warrant it.

Noticing Enjolras’ hovering, Grantaire throws him a look and gestures casually with his hand.

“C’mon in. You can leave your coat wherever.”

He leaves Enjolras there to get rid of his shoes and coat, before slowly following him further into the flat.

It’s tiny, of course it is, has to be for someone to be able to afford anything bigger than a post stamp in Paris, especially on their own. There’s a small kitchenette in one corner, no dining table and the couch across from it looks as though it might just fall apart if one attempts to sit on it. There’s no TV, just a tattered laptop on a rickety coffee table and no other furniture, just high stacks of books lined against the wall closest to the couch.

“My bookshelf broke ages ago,” Grantaire says with a shrug, leaning against the arch of the kitchenette. “Do you want anything to drink? I’m afraid I can’t offer you much. Just water or orange juice. Or tea, if you like. Might be a bit late for coffee.”

Enjolras allows himself a small smile, hoping it doesn’t look as shy as he feels. “Tea would be great, thank you.”

Grantaire smiles back, not his sharp mocking one, but the sweet one Enjolras has only ever seen once before and immediately makes his heart leap inside his chest.

“Tea it is.” He waves his hand once more as he turns to walk back into the kitchen, this time into the direction of the only corner of the room Enjolras hasn’t yet had time to inspect. “The flyers are over there somewhere. Careful that you don’t get any paint on your clothes, it’s oil and doesn’t wash out.”

Enjolras slowly walks over to what turns out to be Grantaire’s work area. There’s a drawing table pushed against one wall and an easel against the other. A sketchpad lies open in-between several loose sheets of paper. Enjolras picks it up, leafing through it and finding it filled with everything from absent doodles, to things that are obviously assignments. Quite a lot of pages are dedicated to their friends - Eponine especially, of course - and most of the drawings show them unaware of the artist, simply talking or laughing or, on a few notable occasions, sleeping with their heads pillowed on their arms at a table. A few are clearly portraits and Enjolras wonders when Grantaire had asked people to model for him, if it had been a planned thing or a spur of the moment decision.

Not a single drawing is of Enjolras.

Ignoring the knife twisting deeper into his chest, Enjolras puts down the sketchpad from where he’d picked it up and turns his attention to the easel and the painting it holds. It depicts a busy street that looks familiar and when Enjolras takes a closer look, he realises that it’s the street in front of the Musain with the café itself dominating the painting. He steps closer, flyers all but forgotten.

“Do you like it?”

Enjolras jumps, then scowls at Grantaire, who once again managed to sneak up on him.

“Don’t do that,” he says irritably.

Grantaire bares his teeth. “Do what?” he asks innocently. “It’s not my fault that you never pay attention to what’s going on around you.”

Enjolras presses his lips together, but doesn’t dignify that with a response, just turns back to the painting.

“It’s beautiful,” he says softly. “They always are, your paintings.”

He only realises what he’s said after it’s already out and when he throws a panicked look at Grantaire, he finds him frowning and looking at Enjolras in that way that makes him want to hide.

“How do you know what my paintings look like?”

Enjolras turns away, unwilling to have Grantaire look at him when he admits to this, instead finally spotting the flyers on the drawing table and grabbing them as though they’re his last chance at survival.

“You did a good job with them,” Enjolras says, holding up one of the flyers and deliberately derailing the conversation, silently wishing, no pleading, that Grantaire would leave it be.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says quietly, a hard edge to his tone. “Where have you seen my paintings?”

Enjolras closes his eyes, his back still to Grantaire. It’s true that he has a hard time admitting defeat, but even he can’t deny it when it’s staring him in the face.

“A few months ago,” Enjolras starts, then has to stop and swallow around the nervousness tightening his throat. “Your art school had a showcase and you were one of the artists they chose for it. I went to see it.”

“You were at my showcase.” 

There’s pure disbelief there and Enjolras finally turns back, determined to face this as he faces everything else in life - fierce and head-on.

“Yes,” Enjolras says simply, taking in Grantaire’s wide eyes.

“But I didn’t tell anyone, how did you even know about it?”

Enjolras carefully shuffles the flyers in his hands. “You spoke to Eponine about it, I overheard you.”

Grantaire shakes his head, frowning. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I didn’t want you to see me,” Enjolras shoots back quietly.

Grantaire’s eyes are fixed on him now and Enjolras feels as though they’re looking straight into his soul.

“Why not?”

“Because you would’ve asked my why I was there.”

“And what would your answer have been?”

Enjolras looks away. “I wouldn’t have given you one.”

“And now?” Grantaire asks, low and full of meaning. “Will you give me one now?”

“What for?” It comes out bitter, pained, and doesn’t sound at all like himself, only for the fact that it does. It’s what he’s been keeping inside for over a year now. “You already know anyway.”

Grantaire looks at him, unwavering. “I’m not sure that I do.”

Enjolras glares at him with a viciousness born completely from the feeling of being forced to balance on the edge of a precipice, ready to tumble into the unknown at any moment.

“How can you not know, Grantaire?” he snaps. “How can you possibly have me believe that you still don’t know how very much in love with you I am.”

The silence that follows is so complete that it rings in Enjolras’ ears.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire whispers finally and it’s too much like before, when they were standing outside Enjolras’ building and Enjolras could practically see the shards of his heart falling to the ground.

He holds up a hand, willing the flow of words that is sure to tumble from Grantaire’s mouth to ebb before they can spill over.

“Don’t,” he says and it’s harsh and sharp, wrenched painfully from inside him. “You wanted to know and now you do. I’m in love with you, have been from the very first day. You’re all I think about, I worship the ground you walk on and I’d do anything for you, anything at all, if you just asked. But you never do, because as much as you say that we’re friends, you don’t care about me. You call me naive, you belittle my beliefs and you never spend any time with me outside the Musain - and even there it’s just to argue with me.” Grantaire’s eyes are impossibly wide and impossibly blue and Enjolras has to look away from them, sucking in a shaky breath. “Thank you for the flyers, I appreciate the effort.”

He leaves as quickly as he can without it looking like a run, and the relief that he manages to flee before Grantaire can say anything else is so profound that Enjolras’ knees feel ready to give beneath him.

His journey home is but a blur and he’s barely two steps into their apartment before Combeferre draws him close, straight into his arms. Enjolras comes willingly, sagging against his best friend’s chest and simply stays there, unmoving, coat and all.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Combeferre asks quietly.

Enjolras closes his eyes and lets his head drop fully against Combeferre’s shoulder. “He knows.”

They don’t say anything after that, they don’t have to.

*

The next day, Enjolras is bundled up in his duvet, leaning against the headboard with his laptop balanced on his knees and a cup of coffee wobbling perilously on the stack of books beside him on the bed when he hears it.

His room is close enough to the hall for him to hear the knock, followed by Combeferre’s familiar footsteps as he crosses the flat and opens the door.

“Where is he?”

Enjolras stills instantly, his fingers freezing above the keyboard and his heart already picking up in rhythm. He would recognise Grantaire’s voice anywhere.

“Inside,” Combeferre says mildly. “Why don’t you come in?” The sound of the door closing makes Enjolras sit up straighter, the duvet slipping from his shoulders and his coffee almost tipping over. He grabs it hastily. “Do you want me to get him for you?”

“Just point me to his room,” Grantaire says and Combeferre, the traitor, does.

“First door on the right.”

There’s another knock a moment later, this time on his own door, and it breaks whatever trance Enjolras has fallen into. He instantly scrambles out of the duvet, finally puts the coffee cup in a safer place and closes his laptop, piling it on top of the books.

It must have taken longer than Grantaire was willing to wait, because Enjolras is barely standing when the door swings open. And, Christ, Enjolras has never felt more naked than in that moment, with Grantaire’s eyes latching onto Enjolras, looking somehow darker than usual as they take him in, dressed in nothing but worn pyjama bottoms and Grantaire’s green hoodie, too big to fit Enjolras properly.

Enjolras tries very hard to glare, but even he knows that it’s failing miserably.

“Grantaire,” he snaps in lieu of a greeting.

Grantaire looks at him and yes, his eyes are definitely darker. “Can I come in?”

Enjolras presses his lips into an irritated line. “Rather late to be asking that question, don’t you think?”

Grantaire ignores the jibe and comes in anyway, closing the door behind himself.

“There’re some things I want to say to you,” he says, his eyes never leaving Enjolras. “Will you let me say them now?”

Heart beating wildly, Enjolras brushes a few wayward strands behind his ears, the messy bun he had tied earlier already dangerously loose.

“It seems I can’t stop you.”

Grantaire takes a step closer. “You keep running out on me.”

“Maybe that should’ve given you a hint.”

“Oh I got the hint,” Grantaire says and there’s something in his eyes that Enjolras has never seen before, something dark and almost predatory. “But the point is that _you_ aren’t getting it.”

Enjolras forces himself to hold his ground, though his fingers clench into fists, hidden by the frayed ends of the hoodie’s sleeves.

“Oh? And what is it that I’m not getting?”

Grantaire takes another step and now, if Enjolras chooses to reach out, he’d be able to touch him.

“That I wouldn’t have said no.” Despite their soft volume, the words sound like a shout to Enjolras, reverberating throughout his whole body. “And this, here, is me not saying no right now.”

Enjolras stares. “You mean- But-” he cut himself off with a frustrated huff of breath. “Grantaire, you’ve hardly spared me the time of day until now.” Enjolras’ eyes narrow as he feels his temper flare. “If this is some form of misguided pity-”

Grantaire cuts him off. “It’s not.”

“Then what is it, Grantaire?” Enjolras demands, words sharp with the edge of command. “What else can it possibly be? You only come to our meetings because Eponine forces you and now this?”

Grantaire licks his lips and it takes everything Enjolras has not to glance down and follow the movement. “I’m not saying that that isn’t how it started out, because you’re right. I couldn’t care less about any of that - and I still don’t. But I’ve found friends there and now,” Grantaire halts, looking a little uncertain for the first time. “Now you’re there, too.”

Enjolras looks at him, feeling wild. “I’ve always been there,” he bites out. “You just didn’t see me.”

Grantaire meets his eyes, unflinching, and his voice is still quiet when he answers. “I see you now.”

Enjolras feels faint and he knows he’s trembling again, unable to contain so much feeling within his aching chest. 

“Do you?” he asks and there’s no sharpness this time, just desperation. “Do you really?”

“Yes,” Grantaire says softly and takes that last step, closing the distance between them. “I do.” He reaches up and carefully tucks a stray golden curl behind Enjolras’ ear, his hand so close that Enjolras can feel the warmth radiating against his skin. He catches it before Grantaire can take it back again and presses it against his faced, pushing against Grantaire’s palm and feeling heat unfurl inside his body as Grantaire curves his hand against his cheek, fitting his fingers around it and tracing a fleeting line against his cheekbone. He carries on speaking and Enjolras’ grip on his wrists tightens just a little. “You’re a hard man to ignore, Enjolras and I never quite managed it, not even at the beginning. But now I _can’t_ ignore you,” Grantaire smiles then, a little ruefully. “And I find that I don’t want to.”

Enjolras holds onto his wrist like a life-line, his spine rigid with tension. “So what are you saying?”

Grantaire lowers his hand from Enjolras’ cheek, to his jaw and fits his other one around Enjolras’ hip, as though it’s him who has to make sure Enjolras is real instead of the other way around. 

“I’m saying yes.”

Enjolras doesn’t even dare to blink as he whispers. “Yes to what?”

“To you.” There’s no hard edges to Grantaire’s face now, his expression completely open for the first time and Enjolras’ heart shudders in his chest. “To everything.”

“You don’t love me,” Enjolras says, sounding pained and lost and horribly vulnerable.

Grantaire tugs him in and their bodies slot together, sure and warm. “I’m not so sure about that,” he says, his eyes flickering over Enjolras’ face as though he’s really seeing him for the first time. “But what I am sure about is that I want you. Badly. Ever since that day I walked you home,” he pauses and licks his lips _again_ and this time Enjolras can’t help but stare at them, openly hungry. Grantaire grips him just a little tighter. “You’ve been driving me crazy, I hope you realise. I didn’t know whether I wanted to strangle you or kiss you.”

“I vote for the latter,” says Enjolras, dazed and hardly aware of what’s even leaving his mouth.

“Ever the republican,” Grantaire murmurs, a fond smile curving his lips and Enjolras’ breath hitches stupidly. He draws Enjolras closer, stretching slightly to overcome their height difference, and his breath is hot and slightly uneven against Enjolras’ skin. “Kissing it is, then.”

The first brush of lips is so gentle, so fleeting that Enjolras wonders for a moment if he’s imagined it, even as he bends towards it, wanting more.

“Breathe,” Grantaire whispers, hot breath washing over Enjolras’ lips almost like a second caress, as soft as the thumb tracing a line against his jaw, cradling his face. Gentle pressure urges him to tilt his head a little and Enjolras yields instantly, gulping in a shaky breath that nearly gets stuck in his throat when Grantaire closes the space between them once more.

It’s still soft, but not quite so much as before. Grantaire parts his lips ever so slightly, capturing Enjolras’ bottom one and pressing in a little harder, increasing the pressure. Enjolras trembles, his fingers sliding from Grantaire’s wrist to his arm, latching on desperately, helplessly. When Grantaire’s tongue laps at the seam of his mouth, Enjolras makes a sound as though he’s dying and his knees give without warning.

Grantaire catches him instantly, wrapping secure arms around him and holding him close, their bodies now pressed together without a single bit of space between them. Enjolras feels light-headed, his cheeks are on fire and he knows Grantaire must be able to feel the hard press of his cock against his thigh. He can’t bring himself to care right now, doesn’t have enough emotion to spare for embarrassment. Enjolras feels drunk, drunk on Grantaire and the way he makes him feel and he just wants more, wants it all. 

“Whoa, there,” Grantaire murmurs, drawing back slightly to look at Enjolras, but Enjolras won’t let him. He chases after Grantaire’s mouth, his own arms now finally obeying him once more as he wraps them around Grantaire’s neck.

Enjolras lacks any form of experience and it shows. Their noses bump and when Enjolras gets his lips back on Grantaire’s, it’s too forceful, too desperate. It’s clumsy and sloppy, but Enjolras is incapable of stopping and just ends up making another helpless sound into Grantaire’s mouth. Grantaire doesn’t stop him either, his hold on Enjolras never faltering, rather drawing him further in. One of his hands finds its way back to Enjolras’ jaw, then slides into his hair and cradles his skull as he guides him into a better angle once more.

Enjolras cedes control willingly, trying to copy Grantaire’s movements, but is mostly just overwhelmed and flooded with sensation. His hips are straining against Grantaire, instinctively seeking friction and when Grantaire licks into his mouth and finds Enjolras’ tongue with his own, his knees buckle again. Grantaire holds him tightly and lingers for another moment, before drawing back far enough to speak, gently leaning their foreheads together.

“Hey,” he says gently, low and intimate. “We best slow down a little, okay?”

Enjolras must be clutching him tightly enough to hurt. “I’m sorry.”

“Jesus, don’t apologise.” Grantaire’s eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide and it makes Enjolras ache with want. “This is the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced, you don’t get to be sorry for that.”

Enjolras frowns a little at that, disbelieving. 

Grantaire nuzzles him gently, before brushing their lips together in a fleeting caress, much like the first time.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “No one’s ever wanted me like this before. To be honest, I didn’t even know that was possible until just now. It’s-” He breaks off and looks away.

Enjolras’ frown, which had eased a moment ago, is back, but for once he follows his instincts without question. He loosens his grip on Grantaire’s shoulders and instead lets his hands run through Grantaire’s wiry hair, smoothing it gently, before curving them around his jaw.

“What?” he asks quietly, but not completely void of his usual commanding tone. “What is it, Grantaire. Tell me.”

Grantaire sighs and withdraws some more, but just as Enjolras is ready to panic, Grantaire takes his hand and twines their fingers together, giving a gentle tug.

“C’mon, we better sit down for this.” He steers them over to Enjolras’ bed and Enjolras follows, sitting down next to Grantaire, pressed in close against his side. Grantaire traces a line against the back of his hand and Enjolras can’t help but shiver a little. “You have to know, before we take this any further, that I’m pretty fucked up.”

Enjolras tries his best to get his mind back on track and feels his forehead fold into another frown. “If you’re talking about the drinking, then I already know.”

Grantaire looks up sharply. “How- You know what, forget it. It doesn’t even surprise me anymore.”

Enjolras holds on tighter, afraid that Grantaire might take back his hand. He doesn’t.

“I’m-”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, cutting him off. “Is this going to be a thing? You apologising to me? Cause I’m telling you it’s a little creepy. I didn’t even know those words were even in your vocabulary.”

Enjolras glares at him. “Be serious.”

“I’ll try my best,” Grantaire says dryly, then visibly loses the humour just as quickly, an almost grave expression on his face. “So yes, the drinking, for one. I’ve been sober for over two years now, but that doesn’t mean that it’s gotten any better and it’s not likely to get any better either. I still want it and some days are shittier than others and I can be a downright prick about it. There’re reasons why I used to drink, why I still want to drink most of the time. I have mood swings, low self-esteem, bouts of depression and, most importantly, I’m a selfish bastard.”

Enjolras’ eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t believe that.”

Grantaire meets his eyes, deadly serious. “Then you better start believing it.” He gives Enjolras’ hand a gentle squeeze. “You wanting me like this, it’s dangerous, because I’ll take it all and revel in it. I’ll be clingy and want more no matter how much you give me and I most likely won’t ever want to let you go again. I try to lie to myself about it, but I’m a stubborn, fanatical bastard and once I’ve got hold of something I don’t let it go and usually indulge in it to excess. It was the same with the drinking and it still is with my art and also, to some extent, with my friends. It’s bound to be bad with you, it already is, a little bit.”

Enjolras forces himself not to shut down, to let Grantaire see him as he is, complete with all the issues he tries so hard to iron out in his every day life.

“It seems, then, that we might finally have something in common,” he says, voice steady and unrepentant. “If you know me at all, you should realise that there’s hardly anyone more stubborn and obsessive than me. I don’t change my mind about things, ever, and I fight for them with all that I have. My parents used to send me to therapy, they thought there was something wrong with me, with the way I latch onto things. And I’m not” He takes a breath, but holds Grantaire’s gaze, letting the truth he’s been fighting so hard finally spill over. “I’m not sure if they weren’t right.”

Grantaire looks at him for a moment, silent and without a trace of judgment anywhere on his face. When he speaks again, the words are light, but his tone isn’t and his eyes are filled with intent. “Well then let me tell you that you have official permission to obsess over me.”

Enjolras swallows and the words come before he can stop them, burning his tongue with their sincerity. “Only if you let me tell you that I don’t mind you becoming addicted to me. In fact, I-” He bites down on the rest, stopping the flow abruptly and viciously cursing his entirely absent filter.

Grantaire is studying him carefully and the blue of his eyes is reduced to a small ring at the very edge. Enjolras wonders, dazedly, if this is what Grantaire normally sees when he looks at him, this sharp hunger that makes Enjolras burn from the inside out as he sees it reflected on Grantaire’s face for once.

“What?” Grantaire prompts quietly. “Tell me. Please.”

Feeling bold and helplessly wild, Enjolras doesn’t think as he releases Grantaire’s hand, doesn’t stop to consider as he slides a leg over Grantaire and crawls into his lap, re-winding his arms around his shoulders as he presses in close. Grantaire makes an unidentifiable sound in the back of his throat and clutches at Enjolras’ hips, bringing them flush together in a way that leaves no mistake about whether he is as hard as Enjolras.

Enjolras can’t help moving against him, his hands sinking into Grantaire’s hair as he buries his nose against his neck, inhaling his scent.

“I want you to,” Enjolras whispers finally, straight into Grantaire’s skin.

Grantaire arches against him and his lips are hot when they find the soft spot right behind Enjolras’ ear. 

“You want me to what?” he murmurs. “Say it, tell me what you want.”

Enjolras stills and hides his face in Grantaire’s neck, holding on all the tighter for the fear of Grantaire changing his mind once Enjolras bares himself completely. “I want you to be addicted to me, I want to be the first thing you think about when you wake up and the last before you go to sleep at night. I want to be in your thoughts constantly, the way you are in mine and I want you to want me, to want me so much you can’t stand it, the way I’ve wanted you this entire time.” He’s sure his hold must be too tight by now, squeezing Grantaire uncomfortably, but Grantaire doesn’t protest and holds him right back, his panting breath hot against Enjolras’ ear. “And I never want you to leave me, ever.”

Grantaire groans and it’s like a direct line to Enjolras’ straining cock, making him shudder and feel as though he’s about to fly apart.

“Fuck, Christ,” Grantaire pants breathlessly, pausing to suck a bruising kiss into Enjolras’ throat that tears a sound from him that is almost inhuman. “God, this is a bad idea. You do realise that an addictive and an obsessive personality will make for one hell of an unhealthy relationship?”

Enjolras draws back far enough to crash their lips together, hard and without fineness but so, _so_ good.

“I don’t care,” he murmurs, says it straight into Grantaire’s gasping mouth. “I want you, Grantaire. _I love you_. Please don’t take this away from me.”

Grantaire kisses him, hot and deep and wet, muffling both their sounds of pleasure.

“I’m not,” he says against Enjolras’ lips. “I can’t, not anymore.”

“Good.” Enjolras rubs against him, helplessly, desperately. “Now show me how,” he pants, digging his fingers into Grantaire’s shoulders. “Show me how you want it.”

Grantaire shoves him down on the bed in a move that it swift and skilled and leaves Enjolras arching upwards, scrabbling to get Grantaire closer again. Grantaire doesn’t make him wait, simply covers Enjolras with his body and presses him down into the mattress, kissing him fiercely.

“Oh my god,” he moans and it’s desperate and full of desire and the most beautiful thing Enjolras has ever heard. “You’ll be the death of me.”

Enjolras wraps his arms around him, his legs, and arches up again, baring his throat to Grantaire’s mouth. “I’d die with you, for you, if you allowed it.”

Grantaire rolls his hips, slow and deliberate but with a frantic edge. He kisses Enjolras again, pressing the words into his mouth. “I’ll allow you whatever you want.”

Enjolras closes his eyes and lets his head fall back on a moan. “I only want you”

Grantaire holds him, hugs him to his chest and squeezes him in a way that feels as though he’d take Enjolras right under his skin if he could.

“You have me, I promise,” Grantaire swears, quiet and desperately sincere.

And Enjolras believes him.

*

“I want to paint you,” Grantaire says, much later.

The light outside has changed and Enjolras is drowsy with sleep, pressed in close against Grantaire’s warm, naked skin. They’re sticky, the sheets clinging to them, and the edge of a book is digging into Enjolras’ ribs, but he’s never been more comfortable. He slides his leg up higher against Grantaire’s side, pressing in closer. 

“Why now?” he asks, lips right against Grantaire’s chest.

Grantaire uses the fingers still twined in his hair to gently tilt Enjolras’ head. Enjolras looks at him and Grantaire traces the lines of his face, his lips. Enjolras kisses his fingers.

Grantaire’s breathing hitches slightly. “Because now, I see you,” he murmurs. “And you’re beautiful.” He replaces his fingers with his mouth, brushing their lips together. “Do you permit it?”

Enjolras smiles and takes Grantaire's hand, lacing their fingers together. “You know you don't have to ask. I’ll permit you anything”

Grantaire’s mouth curves softly into that sweet smile that Enjolras loves so much and when he uses their linked hands to draw him in once more, Enjolras comes easily, tasting that smile and kissing him slowly, lingeringly. And when Grantaire kisses back, it tastes of reverence.

* * *

 


End file.
